If I Lie
Page 57
When I’m sure George is sleeping, I work on his entry for the Library of Congress. Anything to keep busy while my head spins in circles about everything I don’t know. George wants me to finish this, and I won’t let him down. Surprisingly, even after all this time, he has few photos among his belongings at the hospital. Those I’ve seen him with were from other patients. He’s spent hours sorting and organizing them so people wouldn’t forget what these men and women have sacrificed.
Who will remember what George has done?
* * *
Day two: Blake stops by.
He stands in the doorway, shuffling his feet, while he updates me on Carey’s status in Landstuhl. Three surgeries in a matter of days. He’d taken two bullets—one to the chest and one to the leg. Without proper treatment, he’d picked up an infection. Things are “touch-and-go.” More doctor-speak for he may still die, and don’t get your hopes up.
Blake tells me all this, the whole time standing as close to the door as he can be without leaving the room. I wonder if it’s George’s impending death, the steady beeps of his heart monitor, and eau de antiseptic that bothers him so much. Or maybe he still thinks I hold out hope for us, now that Carey is back.
I just don’t have the energy to care.
When Blake leaves, I glance up to find George watching me, fully aware. Who knows how much he’s heard, but it’s enough. Unable to speak around the tube in his throat, he raises his brows. That Blake?
“Yeah. That’s Blake.”
He waggles his brows at me, and I laugh a little, shaking my head.
“I know, right? They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
He points at his own chest and scowls.
I roll my eyes. “Quit fishing for compliments.” He smiles, and I take my seat with my feet on the bed where his leg should be. “Did you hear what he said? About Carey?”
He nods and makes a gesture like holding a phone to his ear.
“No. Nobody’s called.”
He scowls.
“It’s okay. I didn’t expect them to. Honest.” It’s the truth, though that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed. After all the years Carey and I were friends, the Breens haven’t dropped me so much as a text. If not for Blake, I would be getting my news about my best friend from CNN.
I change the subject because George and I have an unspoken contract to avoid sappy, maudlin topics. When he’s awake, like now, we keep things light. Nurse Espinoza dropped off some flowers for him a few hours ago, and I make a big deal of this, trying to make him blush. He looks caught between telling a dirty joke and wanting to chuckle. The tube prevents either.
Eventually he drops off to sleep, and I’m left staring out the window at the black night. I don’t even know what time it is.
My body sinks into the chair, weighted by misery.
* * *
Day three: More of the same.
The doctors remove the ventilator at George’s request.
He tries to convince me to go home in a series of grunts and rude gestures. He’s decided he doesn’t want me to see him like this. Not by myself.
I hold his hand. That’s what we do when things are bad.
He sleeps. A wise man, he knows when it’s time to give up on an argument.
* * *
Day four: Mom shows up after I’ve eaten a cafeteria dinner of limp lettuce someone thought would make a good salad.
She doesn’t knock, but pokes her head through the open doorway. When she sees George sleeping, she tiptoes in and whispers, “I thought you might want some company.”
My eyes well up.
This isn’t about me, but fuck, none of it has been. She’s the first one to offer a little kindness, though, and I scrub my face to hide the effect that small gesture has on me.
I point to the free chair, and she moves it closer to mine. We speak in hushed tones by the light of the muted TV.
“How’s he doing?”
I shake my head, biting my lip. She reaches over to squeeze my hand.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “He means a lot to you.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s mutual, you know.” At my questioning look, she adds, “When he called to invite me to your party, he spoke very highly of you.”
“He would,” I say with a small smile.
“How did the two of you meet?”
Where to start? I’m stunned by how normal the conversation is. Maybe it’s the hour and the dark. Maybe I’m just too worn out to feel the rage she stirs in me. I start at the beginning, from the day she left me at my grandmother’s.
It takes hours. Hours in which George sleeps and she listens.
I have things to say. Things I’ve saved up for six years.
And I say them all.
* * *
Day five: My voice goes in the wee hours, sounding ugly and raw.
That’s when she takes over.
“I love you, Sophie. If I could take it all back, and take you with me, I would. I made a mistake.”
She tells me how her life was changed by that decision. Uncle Eddy reenlisted at some point. Despite everything, she became a soldier’s wife again. Then the cancer hit. This is his third time in remission in six years. And she’s been through it all alone because she lost every single friend she ever had when she walked out on our family.
I hear my father’s voice again.
Sometimes a moment defines you, defines how people see you the rest of your life.
Who will remember what George has done?
* * *
Day two: Blake stops by.
He stands in the doorway, shuffling his feet, while he updates me on Carey’s status in Landstuhl. Three surgeries in a matter of days. He’d taken two bullets—one to the chest and one to the leg. Without proper treatment, he’d picked up an infection. Things are “touch-and-go.” More doctor-speak for he may still die, and don’t get your hopes up.
Blake tells me all this, the whole time standing as close to the door as he can be without leaving the room. I wonder if it’s George’s impending death, the steady beeps of his heart monitor, and eau de antiseptic that bothers him so much. Or maybe he still thinks I hold out hope for us, now that Carey is back.
I just don’t have the energy to care.
When Blake leaves, I glance up to find George watching me, fully aware. Who knows how much he’s heard, but it’s enough. Unable to speak around the tube in his throat, he raises his brows. That Blake?
“Yeah. That’s Blake.”
He waggles his brows at me, and I laugh a little, shaking my head.
“I know, right? They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
He points at his own chest and scowls.
I roll my eyes. “Quit fishing for compliments.” He smiles, and I take my seat with my feet on the bed where his leg should be. “Did you hear what he said? About Carey?”
He nods and makes a gesture like holding a phone to his ear.
“No. Nobody’s called.”
He scowls.
“It’s okay. I didn’t expect them to. Honest.” It’s the truth, though that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed. After all the years Carey and I were friends, the Breens haven’t dropped me so much as a text. If not for Blake, I would be getting my news about my best friend from CNN.
I change the subject because George and I have an unspoken contract to avoid sappy, maudlin topics. When he’s awake, like now, we keep things light. Nurse Espinoza dropped off some flowers for him a few hours ago, and I make a big deal of this, trying to make him blush. He looks caught between telling a dirty joke and wanting to chuckle. The tube prevents either.
Eventually he drops off to sleep, and I’m left staring out the window at the black night. I don’t even know what time it is.
My body sinks into the chair, weighted by misery.
* * *
Day three: More of the same.
The doctors remove the ventilator at George’s request.
He tries to convince me to go home in a series of grunts and rude gestures. He’s decided he doesn’t want me to see him like this. Not by myself.
I hold his hand. That’s what we do when things are bad.
He sleeps. A wise man, he knows when it’s time to give up on an argument.
* * *
Day four: Mom shows up after I’ve eaten a cafeteria dinner of limp lettuce someone thought would make a good salad.
She doesn’t knock, but pokes her head through the open doorway. When she sees George sleeping, she tiptoes in and whispers, “I thought you might want some company.”
My eyes well up.
This isn’t about me, but fuck, none of it has been. She’s the first one to offer a little kindness, though, and I scrub my face to hide the effect that small gesture has on me.
I point to the free chair, and she moves it closer to mine. We speak in hushed tones by the light of the muted TV.
“How’s he doing?”
I shake my head, biting my lip. She reaches over to squeeze my hand.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “He means a lot to you.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s mutual, you know.” At my questioning look, she adds, “When he called to invite me to your party, he spoke very highly of you.”
“He would,” I say with a small smile.
“How did the two of you meet?”
Where to start? I’m stunned by how normal the conversation is. Maybe it’s the hour and the dark. Maybe I’m just too worn out to feel the rage she stirs in me. I start at the beginning, from the day she left me at my grandmother’s.
It takes hours. Hours in which George sleeps and she listens.
I have things to say. Things I’ve saved up for six years.
And I say them all.
* * *
Day five: My voice goes in the wee hours, sounding ugly and raw.
That’s when she takes over.
“I love you, Sophie. If I could take it all back, and take you with me, I would. I made a mistake.”
She tells me how her life was changed by that decision. Uncle Eddy reenlisted at some point. Despite everything, she became a soldier’s wife again. Then the cancer hit. This is his third time in remission in six years. And she’s been through it all alone because she lost every single friend she ever had when she walked out on our family.
I hear my father’s voice again.
Sometimes a moment defines you, defines how people see you the rest of your life.
